


There Was a Plan

by BuickTom



Series: The Things We Knew and Held Dear [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, But it's there, Character Study, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Fluff and Angst, I fucking love Ian Gallagher, I love the Gallaghers, I think I'm getting better at tagging, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich in Love, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich Happy Ending, In the end, It's not super extreme, M/M, Manic Episode, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Not Beta Read, OFC - Freeform, Sad Ian Gallagher, Self-Harm, Well - Freeform, also, also they have kids, and mickey, and nobody can take that away from me, briefly, but like, how does that saying go again?, okay, only at the very end, so please be warned, somebody help me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuickTom/pseuds/BuickTom
Summary: In all the commotion, Ian eventually just ended up looking at Mickey looking at the others. Sometimes it felt like he couldn’t look at him enough. Mickey was still morally grey and irritating and fucking incredible. By far Ian’s favorite person of all the ones he had met. Sure, Ian had drug-addicts for parents and grew up on the Southside, but he had met some good people.orIan Gallagher was seven years old and he had a black eye.--------------------------------Or an attempt at a character study of one Ian Gallagher, especially concerning his relationship with one Mickey Milkovich.JUST A WARNING: There is some self-harm in this. It's not cutting, but it's there.
Relationships: Caleb/Ian Gallagher (mentioned), Frank Gallagher/Monica Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Trevor (briefly)
Series: The Things We Knew and Held Dear [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819390
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	There Was a Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Here's what I listened to while writing this. It definitely does not fit the mood in any way, shape, or form. If you maybe want to read it while listening to this shit, well, I hope you like blue-grass and classic rock.
> 
> \- "Southern Nights" Glenn Campbell  
> \- "Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out" Scrapper Blackwell  
> \- "Today" John Denver (this one makes me cry like a little baby every time)  
> \- "Shenandoah" (I recommend the Sissel version if you want a good home-sick cry, the Petersens if you're feeling... jaunty)  
> \- "My Kinda Lover" Billy Squier  
> \- "Lonely is the Night" Billy Squier  
> \- "Carolina in the Pines/On My Mind"  
> \- "I'm Not a Good Person" Pete the Rabbit  
> \- "All I Have To Do is Dream" Everly Brothers  
> \- "500 miles" (no, not by The Proclaimers you scrubs, look up Joan Baez)  
> \- "Nobody Loves You (when you're down and out)" John Lennon
> 
> Again, these most certainly do not set the mood for this story. I just thought it might be fun ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Ian Gallagher was seven years old and he had a black eye. It wasn’t his first nor would it be his last, but this time was different. It was different because there weren’t ice cubes in a Ziplock to soothe it. It was different because there was no Fiona to tell him that he’d survive or Lip to tell him he looked tough. It was different because Dad gave him the bruise. It was different because Ian was running away from home. Potentially forever.

Frank had come home baked as the clay pot Ian had made in his first grade art class, and just as fucked up too. The pot was meant to look like Mom but ended up kind of just resembling a dog taking a massive shit instead. Fiona had said there wasn’t much difference which made Ian mad. Monica wasn’t perfect, but at least she loved them, probably. Even if she didn’t notice the babies very often.

That was okay though because Ian liked babies a lot. Sometimes when Lip and Fiona were late working, and Mom and Dad didn’t come home; it would just be Ian, Debbie, and Carl. So, Ian would get Debbie and Carl in their PJs. Then he would give Carl his bottle and Debbie some stale fishy crackers. They’d all sit in front of the TV until Carl finished drinking and went to sleep. Fiona said Ian had to pat Carl’s back after he had his bottle, but Ian felt bad if he woke the baby up so instead Ian would bring Carl in bed with him. That way if he threw up Ian would know.

Ian liked it that way anyway. Him, Carl, and Debbie all sleeping together in his bed. He knew it was silly to feel comforted by Debbie and Carl being there, they were just babies and he was the big brother, but sometimes when he heard gunshots he still got scared. He couldn’t remember very well, but Ian thought that when he was Debbie’s age there was nobody’s bed to sleep in if Fiona were gone. Mom’s bed was scary because there were a lot of strangers there. He didn’t want Debbie or Carl to be scared too. Also, Ian liked the way they smelled, warm and not very smokey yet. Ian liked babies more than most other people.

When Ted Wilder’s sister had her baby, Ted told Ian that its head was gigantic. Like a crack baby and it even ripped his sister’s ass in two when it came out. Carl was pretty big, though Ian thought he was smaller when he was newer. He didn’t know how big Mom’s vagina was, but he was pretty sure having your ass ripped in two by a baby wasn’t normal or healthy. He also remembered that Carl used to shake and cry lot, well he still cried a lot, but Debbie did that too when she was first born.

Ian had to ask Fiona what a crack baby was. She said it was when a girl who was addicted to drug and had a baby, then the baby was born wanting drugs. Then Ian had asked Fiona if he was a crack baby. Fiona asked him if he was addicted to crack. He wasn’t, but Ian looked extra hard in the mirror the next morning before school just to make sure his head wasn’t too big. He inspected Debbie and Carl too, but all babies’ heads are big, so it was hard to tell how big is too big.  
Either way, Ian thought Frank had probably been a crack baby. Not because there was anything weird about his head, at least not the outside part, but because Ian couldn’t imagine Frank sober. 

Usually Frank’s constant inebriation was less of an issue and more of a statement. Frank didn’t have a disposition for getting heated like Terry Milkovich or Randy Hennessey. Between CPS and money troubles, there wasn’t usually much use in worrying about Frank. 

Other times there was.

Like when Frank tried to sell Debbie for drugs or when Lip was roughed up by some guys who had beef with Frank or when he hit Ian.  
Frank didn’t do it often and he didn’t do it to any of the other kids.

At first it was harmless shit. Stuff Ian heard every day, like “bastard” or “ungrateful shit”. No sweat. If your dad didn’t berate you once in a while, then you weren’t on the Southside. Except sometimes, not very often, Frank hit him. Not very hard. It was usually nothing more than the thought of a punch, a swinging bottle accidentally glancing off Ian’s cheek. Even more rarely Frank would hit him again. Harder. And then hit him until he ached all over, like his body was one big bruise. Like Ian, in his entirety, was one ugly blemish.

Usually Ian could take that too. Because Mom would finally come and make Frank stop or at least distract him. Or Fiona would pull the rifle on Frank and throw him out for at least a day. Or Lip, although he was eleven and still stood over a head shorter than Frank, would punch Frank. Today though, Frank had said something about nobody coming, probably not even meant to hurt him, and then nobody came. Which, logically Ian knew meant Monica was off chasing a high somewhere else and Lip and Fiona were either running drugs for extra cash or doing dishes at Patty’s. But instinctively, Ian thought it meant that Frank was right. 

So, he ran away from home. Easy. Except now his eye and his ribs were aching and he was worried nobody had given Carl his bottle and he might have been still crying a little and it was fucking embarrassing. Ian knew he was kind of sensitive. That was why Garrett Leone called him a fag for crying when a rogue dodgeball hit him in the face during gym last September, splitting his lip and unleashing the Niagara Falls of nosebleeds. Ian wasn’t exactly clear on the specifics of the word fag, but Garrett had spit it at him so venomously that he was sure he never wanted to be called it again. Lip had gotten Garrett anyway and a week of lunch detention for his troubles. So instead of focusing on how miserable he was, Ian began kicking a rock in front of him as he walked, aimless.

It started to rain. Slowly, then all at once. In a matter of minutes Ian felt soaked to the bone.

Usually, Ian liked the rain. All that potential energy, finally kinetic. Movement and sound and sensation enough to consume Ian if he let it. Rain made everything feel more real and smell a little nicer. Except for the trash. The trash smelled fucking ripe when the collectors didn’t come around for a third week after a big storm. Rain reminded Ian that he was real, too. If he let it soak him, he thought maybe some of his energy might run off him into the storm drains with it. 

Thunder rumbled in the distance, groaning ominously over the humble silhouettes of the slouching buildings which populated the Southside. Ian raised his eyes to catch sight of the next lightning strike.

Sometimes when lightning struck, it made Ian feel lucky. If it were close enough, he could feel the hum of it on his clammy skin. And it made him think that the lightning could’ve hit him, but it didn’t. It could’ve hit him and frozen his little heart, no bigger than his balled fist, in his desperate chest. But it didn’t and that had to mean something. That had to mean that Ian Gallagher had some luck. Even if Frank Gallagher was an asshole and hit his third child sometimes, at least Ian wasn’t the poor bastard who died after lightning struck. Ian thought if you were killed by lightning more than your earthly father had to hate you. 

But all the rain reminded Ian of now what that he was miserable and very, very thirsty. Carl was probably thirsty too. 

Ian arrived at the baseball field. He hadn’t realized that was where he had been heading until he got there. Ian took his black eye and bruised ribs and laid down in the middle of the field. He parted his lips a little, so that raindrops fell in and moistened his throat, but it pricked unpleasantly against his closed eyes and his back tingled from the cold water of the puddle he had laid in. 

“You fucking dead?” Came a vaguely familiar voice, half drowned in thunder. Ian adamantly ignored the person. As long as it wasn’t any of his siblings, he didn’t give a shit. 

“Hey, rise and shine motherfucker, or I’m gonna loot your ass.” The other, clearly a kid not much older than Ian, kicked Ian in the side. It wasn’t hard, but his ribs were already sore. In retaliation Ian grabbed ahold of the boy’s foot and pulled. 

“Fuck!” Mud splashed both of them as the other boy fell on his ass. Ian scrambled on top of him to pin him down, but the boy latched a fist in Ian’s hair and shoved him back to the ground. Ian tasted the earth as he landed. He had nowhere to go, the boy still had a tight grip on him. He flailed his arms futilely. Then Ian was flipped on his back, the other boy’s weight settled over his chest, and Ian tasted blood before he even felt the crackling ache when the boy punched him in the mouth. Ian’s arms flew up to cover his face too late. 

“Fuck.” The other boy said again but grabbed ahold of Ian’s arms to rip them away and pin them to his sides. They looked at each for a moment. Two animals glaring at mirror reflections, wary of themselves. 

“Nice shiner.” The bigger boy observed, he had a black eye of his own. Maybe even two. One eye looked purple as all hell and the other had the unhealthy, pinkish sheen of a nearly healed bruise. Ian just turned his head to spit out the blood collecting in his mouth.

“Your old man do that?” The other tried. Now that Ian looked at him, even in the rain, he thought he could place a name. Dark hair, hateful eyes warning don’t touch: deadly!, a sharp mouth perpetually poised to spit the words fuck you, ghostly pale skin, and a wiry frame; just as prepared to receive a blow as it was to assign one. It all screamed Milkovich, Milkovich, Milkovich, angry and terribly proud of it. Ian didn’t know which brother this was, but he did know that Terry Milkovich didn’t discriminate when he hit his kids.

“What’s it to you?” Somehow Ian felt indignant. He was ashamed of Frank. The Gallaghers weren’t perfect, but at least they were better than the Milkovichs. The other boy shrugged, folded his arms across his chest, altogether too casual for someone covered in mud sitting on top of another person covered in mud. 

“It ain’t. Just thought you were dead. Laid out here like that.” Milkovich answered. All of a sudden Ian shoved the other boy, taking him by surprise, and scrambled from beneath him in a flash. They both rose to their feet and appraised each other anew.

“You a Gallagher?” 

“What’s it to you? You a Milkovich?”

“What’s it to you?” The Milkovich boy spat back. Ian stood up a little straighter. 

“I’m running away,” He said. 

“What the fuck?” but Milkovich stayed where he was. 

“So, don’t bother me. I’m gonna go to the group home or something.”

“Why the fuck would you want to go to a group home?”

“Because at least Frank isn’t there!” 

At this Milkovich barked out a laugh. Or a scoff that sounded a lot like a laugh. A laugh with all its edges sharpened to points, “Frank’s a lightweight.” 

“Fuck off! Just cause Terry scrambles your brains everyday don’t mean that the rest of us gotta live like that.”

Milkovich took two steps and grabbed the front of Ian’s shirt,

“You’re really looking for a reason to get the shit beat out of you, aren’t you, red ranger?” Ian glared at him or tried too at least. The rain was collecting on their eyelashes, weighing them down and making it difficult for either boy to keep his eyes open for long. 

“Fuck.” Milkovich said, yet again and shoved Ian away from him. There was less venom in it this time so when Milkovich trailed past Ian, headed for the dugouts, Ian followed. When they were both safely under the roof of the dugout, listening to the rain tap aimlessly overhead, Milkovich turned to fix him with a look. Ian didn’t know what it was supposed to mean but as Milkovich asked,

“You want to get your ass handed to you or something? Sadist.” Ian thought that he kind of wanted to know. Ian just shrugged at the other boy. Then they both stripped off their waterlogged clothes, down to their boxers. 

It was the last week of May, quickly melting into June so even in the rain it was warm enough to go without. Ian didn’t look at the other boy. He wasn’t afraid. In the same way it wasn’t as bad falling off his bike the second time as it was the first when Ian had learned to ride - once you’d been punched by a Milkovich the prospect of more didn’t seem so scary anymore. It was just that now that Ian thought of it, he hated when other people looked at his black eyes. Maybe this boy felt the same way, just all the time. 

They were silent as they undressed. Milkovich went to retrieve a blanket from beneath the benches. As he unrolled it, quite unceremoniously, a pack of Camels and a lighter dropped out. Then scooping the cigarettes and lighter up from the ground, he flung the blanket over Ian like an afterthought. By the time Ian had detangled himself and rearranged the blanket around his shoulders, the Milkovich boy had already lit up.

Ian saw this old movie on TV a couple weeks ago. It was black and white and the main character was a handsome gangster who smoked, drank whiskey, and had a voice that sounded like both. The Milkovich boy, slouched in his too-big, hand-me-down boxers with a lit cigarette hanging from his lips, looked a lot like that gangster right then. Milkovich looked at Ian and Ian looked back, then the other boy dropped to sit next to Ian. He smelled spicy and sweet like smoke and blood with something more, something light and suspiciously young lurking underneath. Ian usually didn’t like the smoke but thought Milkovich smelled nice anyway. 

“Uh, wanna try?” Milkovich asked, awkwardly. Ian took the cigarette from him hesitantly. He’d seen people smoke a million times, hell the doctor had probably smoking when he popped out of Mom’s coochie. Well, Ian wasn’t one-hundred percent sure that he was born in a hospital, but the first time he’d seen someone smoke couldn’t have been too long after. 

Yet, he’d never really considered the mechanics of it. So, he just stuck the cigarette between his lips and sucked. It didn’t do anything. The inside of his mouth just got hot and tasted sour. He opened his mouth and the smoke poured back out. That looked pretty cool. He turned to look at Milkovich,

“Not like that, shithead. You gotta like swallow it or something. Breathe all the way in...” So, Ian did. He could feel the smoke fill him, warm and bitter. It burned, but pleasantly, like the tingling sensation he got when Lip brushed his hand through Ian’s hair. Then the smoke decided it wanted back out and burst out of him as he coughed. Even his nostrils burned. Milkovich quickly snatched the cigarette back from him, laughing as Ian spluttered. Ian glared at him with watery eyes,

“Fuck off, Milkovich.” 

“Mickey.”

“What?” 

“I’m Mickey.”

“Oh. I’m -”

“Ian!” This voice was loud and desperate and came to them from somewhere in the rain. Ian knew it better than any other voice. It was the voice that whispered sweet, slightly off-kilter nursery rhymes to him. The voice that reminded him to put his folder with his assignments in his backpack every morning. The voice that asked him if he had brushed his teeth after breakfast and yelled at Monica if she brought Ian with her to see her weird friends. Ian immediately gathered up his pile of damp clothing and pulled them back on. Then he looked at Mickey one last time and quickly rolled up the blanket. 

“I gotta go.” Ian held out the blanket for Mickey to take.

“So, you were lying about the group home?” Mickey took it.

“Next time I’ll really go.”

“Ian!” The voice was closer now and when Ian ran out into the rain, it only took him a minute to smack right into Fiona, wrapping his arms around her waist and clinging for dear life. 

Ian Gallagher was fourteen and he was in love. 

With a married man. 

With Kash. 

Ian Gallagher had never been in love before, but he was pretty sure this was it. He was sure this was it because he couldn’t stop thinking about the older man and every time their eyes met, he wanted to laugh or cry or do anything at all. Whenever Kash was around, it felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.  
Once, Ian even started thinking. Just a little, just in the most secret recesses of his mind, about what it would be like: to have a future with Kash. It would have to be after Ian graduated high school and Kash would have to leave Lisa. But Ian could go into the military and maybe Kash would leave this shithole with him. Ian could prove himself. He had a plan. 

He smiled at the man, who was replacing a shelf of chips that the Milkovich brothers had ransacked about an hour ago, from where he sat behind the cashier at Kash N’ Grab. When Kash flashed one back, so brief but undeniably there, Ian’s heart picked up wildly. Zero to sixty in two seconds flat. 

Ian got up and went to help Kash. They worked in silence for a moment. Silences always felt unbearably loaded between the two of them. Ian had so much he wanted to say, but whenever he tried to push the words out, they always got stuck somewhere between his teeth.

The words eventually would become tacky like caramel and glue his mouth shut. 

Sometimes Ian thought they may not even have much to talk about in the first place, most of what they did was fuck. That was alright, talking usually caused a whole lot of trouble. Ian probably wouldn’t know what to do if Kash asked him stupid questions about how he was doing anyway. Today though, Ian had something he really needed to say,

“So,” Ian tried, shit he was nervous, “Um, so, what’re we doing?” Kash didn’t look at him,

“After we’re done with this, we have an order coming in around six-thirty… so we’ll need to get that done. Then it’d probably be good to get on started on sorting out the stockroom, Lisa’s won’t stop complaining about how messy it is.” Shit. He didn’t get Ian. 

“No, uh, I meant you and me. What are we doing now? You gonna let Lisa know what’s going on, or uh should we wait until I’m out of school?” He suspected that he already knew the answer to this, all he wanted was some kind of commitment.

“Oh, uh- “Kash coughed. It sounded a little forced. Ian was probably just being self-conscious. The light overhead flickered and then died altogether with a faint buzz.

“Shit. I just changed that one.” Kash looked up at it. He didn’t look at Ian as he said,

“Could – could you go get the ladder? I’ll look for some bulbs.” Ian just nodded, somewhat dumbfounded at being brushed off so casually. He walked to the stock room, feeling just a bit numb. By the time he came back with the ladder Ian could feel his face burning. Shit. This was so embarrassing. Why did he even ask? Kash knew what he was doing, he was an adult, and he probably saw Ian as some dumbass kid. It didn’t help that he was a Gallagher. Ian watched from below as Kash climbed to unlatch the light covering and switch out the bulbs. 

Kash was still up on the ladder, staring at the light fixture and even more stubbornly not at Ian when he said,

“Um, look Ian, I think we have something good right now. And I, uh, I really don’t want to ruin that. You’ll understand when you’re older, but things get a lot more complicated when you’re an adult… and you just have to deal with them.” 

Numbness returned with a vengeance. He nodded dumbly, for a second time.

“Oh, okay.” Was all Ian could think to say. As Kash finished screwing the lightbulb in, it flickered back to life and the man’s face was suddenly stark with the light of it. He climbed down and began closing the ladder,

“I’ll uh, take this back. Go ahead and throw this one out.” Kash handed the old light bulb to Ian before hefting the ladder up and brushing past him to head to the storeroom.

Ian dropped the bulb in the trash next to the cashier. It cracked when it landed.

Ian Gallagher was fifteen and he had fucked Mickey Milkovich.

Ian Gallagher was fifteen and he had fucked Mickey Milkovich.

What.

Ian was walking away from the Milkovich house, slow with his hands shoved in his pockets, the sun beating into the back of his neck. He tried not to smile. He tried not to dissect every moment of their encounters in the past few weeks. He succeeded at one of these things.

Mickey was different than Kash. Both were warm, but it was different. Kash was a heat that interested him often and burned him more often. Mickey, though he not without his risks, was a quieter heat. Something Ian might even be tempted to call inviting. Fuck. Who knew that a day would come when Ian described Mickey Milkovich as inviting? Ian had never had sex with anyone as young as Mickey though. Now that he had there was certainly a difference. Mickey’s skin was softer, his muscles more fluid as they shifted beneath it. He was rawer too, hardly more than a messy sprawl of energy, more passion than boy.

Ian loved Kash. He thought. But Mickey was different.

Ian didn’t love Mickey, probably never would. But Mickey was different than Kash. He was different because when Ian fucked Mickey they never kissed. They never cuddled. There was no sweetness in it. And yet when Ian fucked Mickey, he felt close to someone. He thought when he fucked Mickey, he knew what it meant to be together and then he thought he was also learning a lot about being apart. When Ian fucked Kash he never felt any closer, nor farther. It was all the same with Kash. So, Mickey Milkovich was different than Kash. Because Ian had always wanted Kash to kiss him but didn’t miss it when he didn’t. 

Every time Ian fucked Mickey it was all he could think about. 

Even if he was pretty sure Mickey had never kissed anyone before and Ian would never be his first. But hell if Ian didn’t miss it. 

Ian thought about Mickey Milkovich some more as he came up on the Gallagher residence. And some more as he settled precariously on one of the porch steps, you never know when that shit will give out on you. Ian hoped it gave out on Frank someday soon. 

There weren’t many people out on the street at the moment and it was quite silent. The world looked bleached in that too bright way that it gets to be around two in the afternoon. Ian thought it might be nice to smoke, but it was too fucking hot. So instead he sat on the porch step and thought about Mickey Milkovich. A more unproductive pursuit. Probably. But a pleasurable one. Definitely. 

Ian knew he wasn’t especially smart or handsome. People told him he was nice often enough for the Southside, but never that he was charming or fun. As far as Gallaghers go Ian was the runt of the litter. He excelled neither in being a piece of shit nor a good time. There was one thing Ian could do well though. Ian Gallagher could make a plan. 

So, fifteen years old and sitting on that porch step that he’d sat on a million times before, Ian made a plan. He made a plan to win Mickey Milkovich over. And maybe one day they’d even make it out of this alive. 

“Shit, man,” Someone laughed behind Ian, he swiveled his head back to look. It was Lip, “Your neck is super fucking red.” Ian touched the back of his neck. The skin there was overly warm and tingled unpleasantly. 

“Fuck.” Ian said and got up, “Being fucking pasty sucks.” Lip looked at him for a minute, squinting, he may have been thinking. Then Lip laughed and threw a hand over his shoulder in lieu of a goodbye, jogging down sidewalk and out of the yard. Ian watched him go. Maybe the sun had just been in his eyes. 

“Alright.” Ian nodded to himself.

Ian Gallagher was eighteen and Mickey Milkovich was dead. Ian knew it. 

The Gallagher house was silent for once. Or actually it was silent often, but never really in the evenings like this. Ian was pretty sure Debbie was upstairs, but it didn’t matter. He sat at the kitchen table with his hands clasped together in front of him on the table. He rubbed his right thumb over the cracked knuckles of his left until it stung. He rubbed his thumb over his knuckles and thought about how Mickey was probably dead. 

Ian’s knuckles burned. 

No, he was probably being stupid. Admittedly, everything had been pretty fuzzy recently. Ever since he had gotten out of the nuthouse, Ian started thinking that maybe something was wrong with him. Usually Mickey would help him out if he got confused, but Mickey didn’t really understand. Fucking hell, Ian was so confused.  
He was pretty sure Mickey was dead though. Because Mickey said he would be back at seven, but it was nearly ninety-thirty now. Ian glanced at the clock on the  
microwave. 

9:24. Mickey did say that if he didn’t come back at seven, it was because he had to go pick up some shit from his house. 

9:25. But did it really take two and a half hours to pick up some stuff?

9:26. Ian started using one hand to rub his other forearm. What if Mickey had gone back to his house to get some stuff, but while he was there the cops came to arrest Iggy or Jaime? And what if while they were there, Iggy or Colin or Jaime, somehow pinned it on Mickey? Ian rubbed a little harder, he didn’t know how Iggy would’ve pinned it on Mickey, but maybe. Maybe if Iggy made Mickey take drugs before the cops came? And then when the cops came Mickey was stoned or high.

9:27. Rubbing turned to scratching. Then Iggy would tell the cops to question Mickey and when they did, he would admit murder or whatever the fuck Jaime had done because he was an asshole when he was sober and a shitfaced asshole when he wasn’t. 

9:28. Then the cops had taken him in. 

9:29. But because Mickey is a shitfaced asshole, he’d made a run for it. 

Then they’d shot him. 

9:30. Ian stood up. His left arm was red, striped with thin welts. A few of the scratches had started bleeding.

Ian didn’t bother to grab his jacket. Mickey was fucking dead; Ian didn’t need his coat. He needed to find Mickey’s body. Or maybe Mickey was bleeding out. Maybe Ian could still save him. Ian felt light-headed. Nothing made sense. He ran across the backyard and jumped the fence. He ran and screamed,

“Mickey!” It came out reedy. Breathing was already hard. Like someone had cut open his throat and twisted his esophagus. Now, like a kinked up hose, nothing could come out and any air could barely get in. He kept running, looking around wildly. 

“Mickey!” He saw a shadow in between two houses, turned.

“Mickey.” he sobbed, barely audible, and slid to his knees as he approached. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and shook, hard.

“Wha- what the fuck?” An unfamiliar man looked up at Ian blearily, his face was ruddy, and he smelled like shit. The man batted Ian away weakly and said,

“Fuckoff. Fucking lunatic.” Ian stepped back quickly, breathing heavily. The man got up slowly, then suddenly:

“I said fuckoff!” He scooped up an empty bottle from the ground and flung it at Ian. It would’ve had a better chance of hitting Ian if the boy had been fucking the stoner from behind. The bottle glanced off the side of the house to Ian’s left and burst apart in a shower of glass. Ian stood there. What the fuck was going on? 

Mickey.

Fuck. Mickey.

“Uh. Sorry.” He said and turned. Then Ian was running again. 

Then he was in front of the Milkovich house. He gripped the neighbor’s fence, feeling super fucking nauseous all of a sudden, and promptly vomited on the sidewalk. Ian wanted to run to the front door, but he still felt a little queasy. So, he walked. When he opened the door, it was quiet inside. Ian looked around, for any signs of the police. Nothing. Shit. They were good. He walked into the living room. One of Mickey’s brothers was on the couch having sex with a girl Ian went to school with but couldn’t remember right now. 

“Iggy!” Ian yelled and suddenly the nausea wasn’t so bad. He was at the couch and ripping Mickey’s brother off the girl to the floor before either could even look at him. Ian punched Mickey’s brother once. 

“Iggy! You fucking got him killed!” Twice, a tooth came out this time, cut Ian’s knuckle,

“Shit!” The brother raised his arms to cover his face, three times “Fuck off Gallagher! Iggy’s in the can! Fuck off, I’m Colin!” Ian paused. What? He looked at the other man for a second. Tried to place his face. Admittedly, Ian never paid much attention to the less charismatic (although Mickey and Mandy had all the charm of a pair of raccoons) Milkovichs. Ian wasn’t one to forget people though. After a moment though, Ian ascertained; this was definitely not Iggy. 

“Shit.” Ian said. Or tried to say as Colin threw Ian off of his chest, only to climb on top of Ian. Colin had one hell of a sucker punch. Ian rose his aching arms to defend his face, but it didn’t stop Colin from landing a few solid hits on his temples, only pausing to spit blood onto Ian’s face. Ian really couldn’t breathe now. He wanted to cry. So, he did. Mickey was fucking dead and now he was too. He had nothing to lose. 

“Colin! What the fuck, man?” What? Ian was so fucking confused. Colin stopped suddenly so Ian tilted his head to see where the voice had come from. Mickey was standing in the entryway of the living room, pointing a gun at Colin. Jaime and some of his buddies stood behind Mickey in the hall, looking like scrappy jackals. 

“I’m gonna give you two seconds to give me one good fucking reason I shouldn’t blast your ass, cut your dick off, stick it in the fucking freezer and throw it over the fence so Donovan’s crazy-ass rat dog can eat it like a popsicle.” Colin was off Ian in a flash.

“Fuck off, Mickey. Your crazy bitch came in here screaming about how I was Iggy and I killed you. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot his ass.” 

“Shut up.” Mickey motioned with his pistol, “Get out.” Jaime’s friends didn’t need much encouragement, probably had seen enough of Colin’s cock. Colin’s girl didn’t need any either, she collected a spare shirt from the floor and fled. Probably had seen enough too. Colin left more reluctantly. Jaime looked around uncomfortably. Mickey gestured again,

“You too, fuckface. What’re you waiting around for? Gay porn? You ain’t getting it.” 

Jaime left, not before flipping Mickey off. 

“Fuck, Gallagher. You look like shit.” 

Ian didn’t respond for a moment. Currently, he was trying not to vomit again as world blurred in and out of focus. He couldn’t breathe very well either. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Maybe if he just laid here for a bit, it would feel better.

“Hey, tough guy, you ignoring me? Why’d you go all Liam Neeson on Colin’s ass?”

Ian looked at Mickey. His face was blurry. Fuck. He wanted to answer, but he was having trouble thinking of what to say, actually, he was just having trouble thinking at all. He felt like he had been cut out of his body. He was starting to vibrate away from it and things were getting fuzzier by the moment.

“Ian?” Mickey’s hand on his cheek tethered him for a moment. He managed to focus on the other for a second, tried to anchor himself to those blue eyes. Vaguely he remembered, he had thought Mickey was dead. He wasn’t. Ian tried to smile, struggled,

“I feel like shit, Mick.” Then Ian passed out. 

Ian woke slowly. He felt like all he was had narrowed down into a single throbbing point. Then he realized: that was just a monster fucking headache. After this feeling started rushing back all at once and oh holy hell, did Ian regret the events of the past few hours. His body was all pain. 

Except someone was running their hand through his hair. It wasn’t gentle at all, but it soothed him. And he could smell cigarette smoke, familiar and unmistakable and suspiciously like home. Ian chanced cracking an eye open. He immediately regretted it. Pain throbbed hotly just beneath his skin, as if someone had harpooned him through the skull. He groaned miserably. 

The hand in Ian’s hair paused. The room erupted into a cacophony of sound.

“Ian- “

“Is he awake- “

“Shit guys- “ 

“Hey! -“ 

“Okay, everybody shut up or get out.” One voice rose above all the others. Fiona. Ian’s successive groan served as punctuation to her statement. 

“Carl. Debbie. Out, now. We need some room to breathe in here.” 

“But- “

“What the fuck, why does- “

“Out. Take Liam with you.” Then Ian heard the shuffling of bodies as Carl, Liam, and Debbie presumably squeezed out into the hall. 

Ian tried opening his eyes once more, incrementally. Mickey sat on the bed next to him, smoking silently and rubbing broodily at his forehead like he did whenever he didn’t know what else to do. Lip and Fiona stood nearby. Lip slouched against the nightstand with his arms crossed over his chest, he almost seemed casual. Ian knew better. He looked at Fiona like he was ten again and so hungry. 

Ian was almost afraid to look at Fiona himself. No. Not afraid, probably nervous, or maybe it was something else. Shit, he couldn’t keep his feelings straight at all. He braved a look. Fiona didn’t look much different than usual. Tired, a little frazzled, with her arms crossed so much like Lip’s were, and yet not alike at all. Lip’s arms were a shield, Fiona’s were just exasperated. Right now, she looked a hell of a lot like how Ian imagined most moms probably do. Ian closed him eyes again and licked his crusty lips. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t want to have this conversation.

“Mickey, what now?” Fiona directed to the man sitting beside Ian. It didn’t sound accusatory, just as if she was calling back to some conversation, or maybe several conversations, that Ian had never even known they’d had.

Mickey was silent.

“Okay, good, whatever. I don’t care. We can talk about this later.” The bed dipped next to Ian and Mickey’s heavier weight shifted away a little. A new hand began combing through his hair, familiar and warm. Even though this one was much gentler, Ian was surprised to find that Mickey’s hand had comforted him just as much.

“Ian.” Fiona was trying to be patient. Ian wanted to cry again. He opened his eyes.

“You really took a beating, huh bud?” Ian squeezed his eyes closed again as his head pounded. Yeah. He felt like shit. He knew they didn’t understand, but he had to try. He had to try to let them know that it had made so much sense at the time.

“Mickey’s alright?” Was a start. Mickey shifted into his view,

“Fuck, Ian. Yeah, I’m good.” Mickey glanced at Fiona and Lip before awkwardly taking one of Ian’s hands into his own. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

“Ian, you – “ Fiona began, paused her ministrations on his hair, “you got a pair of shiners from Colin and your arms are all kinds of fucked up, there were shards of glass in them.” What. Confusion fogged Ian’s mind for a moment. Then he realized. 

“The hobo,” He was finding speech somewhat tricky at the moment, “There was a fucking hobo.” Fiona turned to Lip, probably to share a look that read one-hundred percent ‘what the fuck’. 

“A hobo?” Fiona repeated. Ian tried to nod once, regretted it immediately as pain shot through his skull like a thousand needles. 

“Yeah, threw a bottle at me…” 

Now Mickey, Fiona, and Lip all looked at one another. Great. They were uniting. 

“Colin said you thought he’d offed me?” Mickey tried, clearly done with lack of clarity. They were all deathly silent now. This was the interesting bit.

“Fuck. Mickey, I thought you were dead.” Ian looked straight at the other boy when he said it. Now he actually started crying. 

“Fuck.” Ian reiterated. He almost missed Fiona and Lip’s next shared look. Mickey just rubbed at his brow again with the hand not gripping Ian’s and pursed his lips a little, averting his eyes.

“Ian,” Fiona was combing through his hair again, “You know that’s not – a normal thing to think, right?”

Fiona had to understand. Ian thought. She had to. Maybe it didn’t make sense to them, but it had felt so real. He had just known that Mickey was dead and maybe he wasn’t, but he could’ve been, and nobody could know if next time Mickey left the house that he might actually end up dead. Fuck. Ian couldn’t breathe again. He still tried to speak,

“No, fuck, Fi, you don’t get it.” He searched Lip and Mickey’s faces for help, but both of the other men looked hesitant. “Fi, you gotta listen to me. I just knew it. That Mickey was hurt. I fucking swear.” Fiona looked at Ian like she didn’t know what to do with him.  
“Look, Ian- “  
“No, Fiona you gotta believe me! You just have to. I knew it like you know you gotta take a piss in the morning. It made sense!” Ian felt light-headed, “it made sense.” He finished resolutely. He still couldn’t breathe, even though he felt so damn confused and hurt that he just wanted to give into sleep again, maybe forever this time. Ian couldn’t ever figure out what was going on. He needed someone to look at him like he wasn’t crazy. 

He looked to Mickey. When Mickey noticed this, he finally lowered his hand from his brow and looked back. Just for a moment. Then he stood up,

“Look, fucking look Ian. Get a big old eyeful, I’m perfectly fucking safe. Whole, alive, couldn’t be better.” He even spread his arms for Ian’s inspection. Lip nodded,

“Ian, really, he’s fine. You don’t got anything to worry about.” His brother added, affirming. Ian eyed all three of them for a moment, reached a hand up to wipe the tears and snot from his face. 

Mickey was right. 

They all were. 

Everyone was okay, meanwhile Ian had punched Mickey’s brother and even he couldn’t say why. Nothing made sense anymore. 

But at least Mickey was alright. Fiona put a hand on his shoulder and sighed,

“Alright, Ian. I’ve reached my crazy bullshit quota for today. Let’s just talk about this tomorrow.” She looked so worried. Ian’s gut was wretched with guilt. At the same time, he had nothing to say, couldn’t even think of anything. So instead he just nodded. 

Fiona got up. Lip came over to run a hand through Ian’s hair once as well before the two of them left the room. They were probably bound for the kitchen where they could share more worried looks over lukewarm beers. Ian himself had been part of such a ritual often enough. 

Shit. How was he supposed to tell them that most of his injuries had been his own doing? And there was someone else he probably should tell too.

Mickey. The older man hovered awkwardly over Ian. He had been doing a lot of things awkwardly tonight. Like he didn’t understand this part of Ian, like he was unsure of his role in this whole thing anymore. Ian was so tired. He wished Mickey would just come a little bit closer or leave altogether. Really, he wished Mickey would just doing anything at all. He thought it might make him feel better. He trusted Mickey to know what to do with him. He felt fucking terrible about putting that on Mickey.

Finally. Mickey carefully lowered himself onto the bed next to Ian, as if he was a delicate thing.

“Fucking Gallagher.” Was too quiet to be anything other than unnervingly gentle when Mickey breathed it out. 

Ian scrunched his face up. He didn’t want to cry again.

“Fuck off. I’m tired.” Ian replied. Mickey didn’t say anything else, just cupped a warm hand over Ian’s jaw, his palm was little damp and Ian’s face ached, but he didn’t mind. He really didn’t fucking mind. At least this made sense. 

“Mick,” Ian took a fortifying breath, “I really thought you’d kicked it.” Mickey just hummed, a little rough. Probably didn’t know what to say. So, Ian kept talking, 

“I was really fucking scared.” 

Mickey leveled Ian with a look. A look that was so young and raw and afraid. Afraid of what? Of Ian? Of who Ian was becoming? Of the fact that even Ian didn’t know the answer to that? How Ian wished he knew. He was so damn confused. Looking at Mickey, he desperately wanted things to make sense again.

“Me too.” Was all Mickey said.

Ian Gallagher was twenty-one and he had been fucked by Trevor Mazzo. It had felt good when it was happening. That was what Ian told himself as they laid in bed after, tangled together like a real couple. And Ian tried to think only that.

It had felt good when it was happening. It had felt good when it was happening. It had felt good when it was happening. It had felt good when it was happening. The blanket felt itchy on Ian’s skin. It had felt good. Trevor’s arm around his waist was itchy too. It had felt good. Ian was buzzing beneath his skin. It had felt good. Ian couldn’t bounce his leg or pull his hair, but he needed something physical to ground him, so he curled his toes instead. It had felt good. He uncurled them. It had felt good. Curl. It had felt good. Uncurl. It had felt good. Curl. It had felt good.

But it hadn’t felt like Mickey Milkovich. 

And that was all there was. 

Suddenly Ian couldn’t think about what it felt like to be fucked by Trevor, because everything was Mickey. The smell of sour, heady cigarette smoke and something stubbornly warm and musky like an old tee with a faded tag that probably read made in China. The sound of uneven breathing, because Mickey had broken his nose once letting his brothers pull him behind a shit bucket car on a trolley and he couldn’t breathe very well through one nostril ever since. The feel of warm palms, a little tacky with sweat because Mickey was always nervous and tough knuckles scarred a thousand times over because Mickey was always angry. Except Mickey wasn’t always angry. Not when Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian during sex like he could make Ian stay. Not right after they finished, and Mickey pressed his face into Ian’s neck and Ian let him stay there until he couldn’t take how it tickled. Mickey would let Ian pull him to rest on his chest after that anyway, so it was alright.  
Trevor was too conscientious. He had immediately cleaned both of them up and offered Ian a fucking glass of water. Ian was fucked. There was something wrong with him. There was something wrong with Ian Gallagher because he missed falling asleep covered in his own semen. But Ian had already known there was something wrong with him and he had been falling asleep covered in his own semen next to Mickey. 

Mickey who was out there now, who had escaped prison and if only Ian could track him down, he could see him: could hold him, kiss him again, just even fucking look at him one more time.

“Ian. You’re still awake, man?” Trevor shifted next to him. Suddenly shame flooded in, hot and acidic like a colony of ants eating their way through his stomach. Why should he regret having sex with his boyfriend? Ian had sucked more than a few saggy ball sacks when he was still with Mickey. Had, had no qualms about sex with strangers when it was still Mickey’s bed he fell into at the end of each night. 

Why did he get like this whenever he had sex with Trevor? Fuck. He had felt this way when he had, had sex with Caleb too, even though he liked Trevor much better. He had thought it would go away. Like how they say when someone dies that you perk up after a while. Except it never felt better. Mickey was a fucking gaping wound in Ian’s chest.

Falling in love with Trevor had not been falling in love at all, so far. Ian liked Trevor so much, but there was always that disconnect, the distance even when they were breathing in the same air. He had to try so fucking hard with Trevor. Mickey hadn’t been like that. Of course, it wasn’t easy. In fact, sometimes falling in love with Mickey had been so unbearably painful and warm; like getting into a burning hot bath in December. Ian’s love for Mickey had arrived suddenly and indomitably, with so much momentum that Ian was powerless to stop the deluge. 

It had never been the loving that hurt though. It had been the fucked up father or Ian’s shitty genetics or some other outside force that had swooped in reverse deus ex machina style to screw them over.

“Ian?” Trevor shifted to lean over and turn on the lamp on the bedside table. The ants had finished gnawing on Ian’s stomach lining and suddenly made way for a more dangerous creature. Anger. It pissed Ian off, because didn’t know if he would always feel like he was missing a fucking lung. And maybe he had nobody to blame for it but himself.

“Ian? You in there, babe?” Trevor nudged Ian’s shoulder. Ian looked up at him. Trevor was back lit by the lamp, so his face was darkened. Ian couldn’t tell what expression he was wearing.

“Sorry.” Ian moved to sit up, grinding the heel of his hand into the back of his neck. Trevor moved to hold Ian’s hand. Rubbed his thumb over Ian’s knuckles soothingly. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Fucking Trevor. He always knew what people wanted to hear. So sweet and open and good.  
Ian withdrew his hand. Shook his head.

“I’m okay. I just- “ He didn’t have any more words. Years of trauma had put a quota on that shit. Ian stood up and left the room silently. Trevor followed,

“Ian.” He was clearly exasperated. “You gotta let me know if you’re feeling down. Or if you’ve got shit going on.” He was trying to communicate. His voice was even, calm. Ian knew this. He knew this when he said,

“I don’t have to do shit, Trev.” 

“What?”

“Leave me the fuck alone.” These were the kind of words Ian wished he hadn’t said even as he felt the shape of them on his tongue. Ian had tasted a lot of these words. Trevor crossed his arms over his chest, 

“Fine. Okay, I’m not going to talk to you when you’re like this. Obviously, you need to take a minute to get over yourself.” 

Ian knew he was the one who had provoked Trevor. Something in him still flared unpleasantly. He gripped the back of his own neck to keep himself from retorting.  
Then he left the house silently, and he sat on down on the second step of the porch. It was probably too cold to sit outside in a t-shirt and shorts. 

Ian didn’t want to be warm. Like water, the cold air tamed Ian, collected and compressed him back into his own form. So, he could be Ian Gallagher. Or Ian Gallagher as Ian Gallagher planned to him to be. Frozen into something which could be sculpted at will.

Not many things in Ian’s life had gone to plan. Mickey hadn’t been part of the plan, hadn’t gone as planned even when Ian started to try to shove him into it. Trevor, though. Trevor was a perfect fit for the plan. Good, functional, normal Trevor. Trevor who his therapist would love. Trevor who wasn’t perfect but hadn’t ever been to jail. Trevor who had gone through some shit, but hadn’t lived in his abusive, rapist father’s house for years. 

Trevor who was tame. Trevor who was fun. Trevor who didn’t scare Ian with how he could rip his heart out and put it back together all in the same sentence. Trevor who had weird fucking friends, but at least he had them. Trevor who he didn’t want to have sex with. Ian stood up and started walking home. He couldn’t stay here tonight.

Ian had wanted so badly to escape the Southside, had spent the past months trying to convince himself that Mickey wasn’t shit, but he was scared what might happen if Mickey ever asked him to come back.

Ian Gallagher was twenty-one and he was afraid. He hadn’t really thought this through any further than leaving Mickey at the border. Actually. Fuck that. He hadn’t thought this through. At all.

“You want me to what?” Ian cringed at Lip’s tone.

“Come get me in Texas?” He tried again, rubbing his hand over the back of his head. 

“Um, Ian – you been skipping your meds man?” Usually something like this would’ve pissed Ian off. Usually he would’ve hissed and strained ruthlessly against these words. Sometimes Ian himself didn’t even know if how he felt was real, he didn’t need other people affirming that.

Right now, though, Ian just wanted to go home.

“No, uh - no, look Lip. I ran off with Mickey, wanted to fuck off across the border – “ He wiped his damp hand off on his pant leg. Fuck, it was blazing hot.

“Fuck.”

“Uh, yeah. But you know, I told him I couldn’t go with him…”

“Fuck, Ian. Why didn’t you do that before you got to Texas?” 

“I – I dunno. I guess I just couldn’t say no to him.” Ian knew his voice was dangerously tight, what with his throat constricting and pressure building behind his eyes. Lip didn’t say anything on the other end for a while. Then.

“You gonna tell Trevor?” 

“He didn’t tell you guys when I left?”

“No, we haven’t heard anything from him.” Ian felt like he might throw up. Trevor probably already knew what he had done. 

“Oh…” They were both silent again. The sun beat mercilessly down on Ian in waves of boiling heat. It was so humid and blazing hot. Each breath Ian took felt impossibly thick, like he was underwater. 

“Alright, fuck it. I’m comin’ to get you Ian.” 

“Don’t tell Fiona?” More silence and then softly,

“I gotta eventually, man.” Ian could hear it when Lip sighed over the line, “Look, it’s gonna be okay Ian. We’ve got you.”

“Okay.” Ian still felt like shit.

“Okay, text me where you are, find a motel or some shit, don’t take drugs from strangers.” 

“Oh, fuck off, I’m not gonna take any drugs.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just wanted to make sure you know not to. I’ll be there in a day or two.” 

“Alright… thanks Lip.”

“Yeah, no problem, Ian. It’d be a pretty shitty thing to do though; leaving my brother in Texas.” Ian tried for a chuckle. It came out suspiciously wet. 

“See you soon, Lip.” 

“Yeah.” Then Lip hung up and Ian was alone again. 

He stood on the sidewalk outside a tiny, faded HEB, badly in need of a smoke. Everything here looked bleached, the sun an oppressive presence which laid the whole terrain awash in violent light. It looked wrong, with everything ten shades lighter than anything in Chicago had ever been. Well, maybe aside from the people.  
Ian breathed in deeply through his nose, the heat invaded his lungs. It was suffocating. A cloud of mosquitoes hovered erratically in the air nearby, oddly visible in the harsh light. Cicadas, still unseen, hummed in a throbbing rhythm. Their buzzing was dizzying as it screamed ever louder, striving for an impending crescendo. When he first heard them in San Antonio, Ian had thought the noise was some old, shitty power line. But the past two days had been the longest of his life and now he couldn’t mistake them for anything else.

Chicago seemed worlds away here. Ian almost wished it could stay that way. He cast a longing look at the highway, cracked and just as bleached as everything else. It struck through the land, a straight shot to nowhere. At least nowhere to him.

He ached to follow it until there was nothing left of him. Not even a sliver.

When Mickey had shown up everything had simultaneously fallen apart and come neatly together all at once. Fiona was right, Mickey had taken a match to Ian’s carefully crafted life. Ian’s precious plan that he had draft and redraft and redraft over again through every fucked up moment of his life. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. The plan that Ian had finally begun to see reflected in reality had been blown away the moment Ian saw Mickey’s face. It was terrifying. 

Because Ian realized that it didn’t matter to him if his entire life went up in flames. Ian had loved his plan so much, had wanted it so badly. It enticed and soothed. Yet, he still wanted Mickey more than any fucking plan he could plot out meticulously, detail by detail, in his own faulty brain. Ian loved that fucked up, wonderful piece of Southside shit more than anything. That highway looked so inviting.

Both he and Mickey knew that Ian could never go to Mexico. It wasn’t because of his job or Mickey’s convict status or even, Ian felt so fucking terrible, Trevor. It was because of Ian. Bipolar Ian who needed his medication, stability, a strong support system. Bipolar Ian couldn’t just do whatever he fucking wanted, at least not if he didn’t want to irreparably hurt the people he loved. Bipolar Ian had been stripped of that choice the moment he arrived in this world, screaming and so painfully alive. It felt like utter bullshit.

Because Ian had still hurt Mickey. It would’ve been worse if he’d gone though. There were too many question marks about Ian’s medication, his sleep schedule, his siblings that Ian knew he wouldn’t have just fucked himself over, but Mickey too. Ian knew Mickey had understood this too, probably better than anyone else could.  
That didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt like a bitch though. 

“Fuck.”

Ian wiped sweat from his forehead. Suddenly freezing air blasted him in the back as the grocery store’s doors opened and someone walked outside. Holy shit, it felt like heaven.

“You look like shit.” Ian turned to look at the man who had just come outside. He looked old, wasn’t very tall and had skin like a brown leather bag. Notably, he had approximately ten bags on each arm. He squinted up at Ian with dark, molten eyes folded in the leathery swells and dips of wrinkles. They were the kind of wrinkles Ian himself was well on his way to obtaining. The kind that come somewhat from unkindness from the world and mostly unkindness towards oneself. It reminded him of his mother.

“Um, thanks.” Ian was suddenly painfully aware of his own speech. It’s so much easier to remember what you’re like when there’s nobody like you around.

“You’re from up North?” The man started unloading his bags onto the hot pavement. Ian wondered if he stopped to point out stranger’s who were in clear dismay regularly. 

“Uh, yeah, Chicago. That obvious?” Ian wiped at the back of his neck with a palm. Considering his palm was already just as sweaty as his neck, it didn’t do jack shit. The man laughed a sort of non-laugh that was more of wispy wheeze than anything substantial. 

“Fucking unmistakable, all of y’all.” Ian may lack much self-control, but he wasn’t about to point out that this guy was pretty obviously from the South of somewhere. Instead Ian watched as the man stopped over to begin digging around in one of his shopping bags. The man grunted as he said,

“Well, you ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto. What’re you doing here?” Before Ian could answer the man, he stood back up with a cartridge of Lucky Strikes in one hand and continue,

“If you’re headed South cause you got caught up in some shit with the cops, I don’t want to hear ‘bout it. If you’re on a vacation and waiting for your buddies to finish in the loo, offer me some cash already.”

“Nah, none of that shit.”

“Then what?”

“I – uh – followed someone here.” At this the man hummed thoughtfully, took a cigarette out for himself and then offered the pack to Ian. Ian had never had a Lucky Strike; thought they’d been discontinued in 2004 or some shit. Back when Ian was still just inhaling Monica and Frank’s smoke instead of his own. The man produced a lighter that looked old as hell and lit both of them up. 

“Well, you catch them?” The shorter man took a pull. Breathed it out slow and even. Ian chuckled humorlessly,

“Nah, man. Not even fucking close.” He tried his own cigarette. All of a sudden, his lungs burned fiercely. The smoke, displeased to be contained, spilled back out of Ian as he coughed,

“What the hell?” he croaked drily. Ian hadn’t had any trouble smoking since he was seven. The man laughed. It sounded a lot like his wheeze from earlier, except more. The end result was a sound like the engine of an old, shitbox car turning over a million times before igniting. 

“These ain’t got a filter. They’ll kill you quicker so you’d better slow down, kid.” He waited until Ian had finished coughing and was working through his embarrassment to say, “What’re you going to do now?” 

Ian tried the cigarette again, a single cough escaped abruptly before he replied only, “Dunno.” He cast a glance at the highway.

“Yeah, it’s tempting, ain’t it?” He blew smoke through his nostrils. It clouded up the view in front of them. Two vultures landed a few feet away and began picking at a piece of cardboard that had been crushed against the pavement. 

“Just to walk away, straight down that road and never look back. Maybe one day you’ll hit New Mexico, see Philmont. Fucking beautiful. Maybe after that you can make it to Utah and the Wasatch Mountains. Find some form of God up on the peaks, people have before. Even if they’re weird or nearly gone. Take a detour to Garden of the Gods in Colorado because you can. Then on to the Seven Devils and Sawtooth in Idaho, across the border to Alberta. Just to get as far as fucking possible from who ever you’ll be leaving here and whatever you’ve already left in Chicago.” 

Ian wondered if he wasn’t the only one that highway had ever beckoned,

“But I’ll tell you what you’ll find at the end of that road right now. You’ll be standing outside a Smith’s in Salt Lake City or Sobey’s in Edmonton. You’ll meet a stranger there and he’ll tell you that you look like shit. ‘Cause if you followed someone all the way here, kid, no amount of running is going to make you love them less.” Ian wanted to be angry. 

“Maybe one day you will go to all those places and they’ll teach you something about yourself, but no mountain has ever fit a person sized hole. You got to face this kind of thing head on. Figuring out who you are.” Then the man dropped the butt of his cigarette to the pavement and neatly stomped it out. Ian followed suit. He’d better start looking for a motel, Lip wouldn’t be here until tomorrow night at earliest. 

Ian made to leave. Before he could though, the man held out his cigarettes to Ian. Once Ian accepted them and pushed them into a pocket, he said,

“Now, help me carry my groceries to my car.” 

Ian Gallagher was twenty-three and he knew the statistics. Roughly two percent of adult Americans were diagnosed with bipolar disorder. At least seventy-five percent of people with bipolar disorder relapse and over sixty-six percent more than once. Sixty percent of people with bipolar attempted suicide at least once. People with bipolar disorder lived nine to twenty years less on average than people without. Monica died before she hit fifty. Ninety percent of marriages in which one party was bipolar ended in divorce. Ninety. Fucking. Percent. Things weren’t looking good.

Things had never really been quite rose tinted in the life of Ian Gallagher, but he’d thought he wasn’t totally fucked. Jury was still out on that one. 

At least he knew he had fucked himself over in one way, again. He’d fucked himself and Mickey over when his traitorous heartbeat cut him at the courthouse a month ago. Again. He regretted it. Of course, he regretted it and even had a broken leg as a nice keepsake, but he knew his reasons. 

That day in the courthouse, Ian had come to his senses again. 

When Ian went to jail, he’d had nothing. He’d suspected that there wasn’t much left for Ian Gallagher, even if he stayed on his meds and did his time like a good boy. His clean record was fucked. All of the progress he had made with his mental health: fucked. His gig as an EMT: fucked. His chances at a normal fucking life: fucked. Then Mickey Milkovich swooped in again. Like Ironman or Mr. Anderson or some shit.

In prison, Ian clung to that.

He let Mickey become his anchor, the standard metric by which Ian measured every aspect of life. I prison, when Mickey woke up each morning, he would beeline for the toilet, by the time he was finished a guard had always appeared with Ian’s medication. Each afternoon, when Mickey came back from the yard smelling strongly of cigarette smoke, he would peel his jumpsuit off and fling it at Ian, telling him to strip too. Even when this pissed Ian off, it became an immobile part of routine. Like navigating with the rising and setting of the sun, Ian knew nothing about his life unless he could pinpoint it in relation to Mickey. And that was probably really fucking bad.

In return, Ian spent every moment making it up to Mickey. Making up for the border and before the border in front of the Gallagher house and even before that in the night clubs and the psyche ward. He hadn’t ever been easy on Mickey, nobody had, and now he wanted to treat Mickey softly. He wanted to cradled Mickey’s warm face, arms, legs, body in his hands like the one fucking fragile china plate left in the Gallagher house. He wanted Mickey to feel, for once, just how precious he was. Except, Mickey never asked to be treated softly. Just fairly. 

And Ian hadn’t been fair to Mickey when he left him, again, at the courthouse. Except prison had been a dream, ironically, and getting out made Ian realize that the problem hadn’t been with Ian’s actions. The problem was with bipolar, bat shit fucking crazy Ian Gallagher. Ian couldn’t put Mickey through that again. There were a million other guys ten times better than Ian Gallagher for Mickey Milkovich, Ian knew because he’d dated some of them. He was worried Mickey had never gotten the same chance.

And yet here he was. He had accepted when Byron invited him to the stupid fucking concert, and he had asked the first twink who he matched with on Grindr to be his date and now he was looking in the mirror trying to fix his hair. Even though he knew no matter what he’d look like an asshole to Mickey anyway.  
He just couldn’t let it go. If Ian knew one thing it was this: there was no one better for Ian Gallagher than Mickey Milkovich and he was one selfish bastard.

An hour at the bar and Ian thought he might fall asleep standing where he was. The music was soft and droning, every song hardly more than a repetition of the same three notes. The most exciting part had been when the cellist broke out a triangle for half a measure.

Cole seemed to care for the music about as much as Ian did. There was one thing they had in common. If they had any other similarities Ian thought he wasn’t liable to ever find out because Cole had spent most of the night talking to anyone that was not Ian. He was okay with that. 

He’d much rather spend the night awkwardly watching Mickey over the rim of his glass either way. That was probably a really fucking sad statement. Here he was, twenty-three and he’d gotten Mickey back and then he’d lost him again and even now he still couldn’t leave Mickey alone. He was starting to realize that at least when Ian Gallagher was concerned, forgetting about Mickey Milkovich was very likely not within the realm of possibility. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t scared of this. 

Mickey, for his part had probably said even less to Byron tonight than Ian had to Cole. It would’ve pleased him if Mickey didn’t look so fucking lonely.

Mickey wasn’t unlikeable and even when they were in prison he’d managed to form a vast network of friends with alarming speed. Well, Ian didn’t know if they were friends like most people have friends, but there were a few guys that smoked with Mickey out in the yard together most evenings and sat with them at meals, so that probably counted. Still, Mickey had always struggled when it came to unstructured social settings. 

Everyone at the Alibi already knew Mickey and if they wanted to say something to him, they would. Even when they’d come and Kev struck up a discussion of WWE wrestlers who were from Illinois, Mickey never had much to add. It was a short list anyway.

Really what it came down to though was that Mickey couldn’t do small talk.

Oh, he could give a masterclass in all the flavors of pretzel they were selling at the Aunt Annie’s stall in the mall or how he was pretty sure that the El was haunted by the spirits of the homeless (Ian often mused that Frank might end up there one day in that case), but that was different. Mickey talked to Ian. Otherwise, Mickey Milkovich was a creature of great efficiency. He knew how to get his point across in ten words or less. Five of those words were usually ‘fuck’. There was rarely anything Mickey did that needed more than ten words anyway; he was a man of action. 

However, Ian talked for the sake of talking. A lot. Any Gallagher worth their salt wouldn’t keep their mouth shut any longer than it took the other party to spit at them. Then they were back at it at two-hundred miles per hour and still picking up speed. Ian was pretty sure this had rubbed off on Mickey a little.

All the stupid shit Mickey had probably never said anything about because nobody cared to listen, he told Ian. Ian didn’t always care about what Mickey was talking about, but at least he cared that Mickey was talking. So, irritatingly, Ian was having a difficult time deriving any joy at all from the sight of Mickey leaned against the wall near the door, one arm crossed defensively over his chest and the other nursing a mostly empty beer. Every last inch of him screamed ‘I want to go home’.  
Ian really fucking wanted Mickey to come home too.

He looked for Byron. In spite of the dim lighting, he wasn’t difficult to spot if only for the fact that he’d hardly moved since Ian arrived. The smaller man had remained firmly attached to a few friends for the majority of the night. It pissed Ian off that he hadn’t bothered to introduce Mickey to them, even if Mickey was sure to offend every one of them anyway, if they were anything like Trevor’s friends at least. Still, it was the principle. 

Byron’s friends laughed at some shit he said. It didn’t matter anyway; Ian was trying to win Mickey back. Byron could be an asshole if he wanted to. 

“I’m gonna go, uh, say hi to someone.” Ian tried to say to Cole. His date was on the phone again though, so Ian wasn’t sure if he heard. At least he’d tried. Ian propped his crutches under his arms and picked his way around people to reach Byron. 

“I didn’t have a choice, and he won’t go,” Ian already knew who Byron was talking about. Byron hadn’t been especially subtle when Ian he saw him earlier. Even so, he felt the muscles in his jaw tightened, straining.

“I was hoping that since I got his ex here, that maybe he’d taken him off my hands. Please, god.” Ian knew about this too and he fully intended to play along so it didn’t bother him that much, but Byron was still talking, and it wasn’t helping his case,

“So, no he’s not my boyfriend. He’s dumb, he’s rude, he’s politically ignorant, he’s violent, he’s socially inept; I don’t even think he can read and he’s way too aggressive in bed. And not in a good way.” Ian was starting to get that feeling. The feeling that his body was too small to contain him and he couldn’t sit still. His head felt like it was on fire and his stomach was full of acid. He was fucking pissed.

Byron may not have been saying anything Ian hadn’t said about Mickey before, but that only made it worse. At least Ian told Mickey that shit to his face and he loved Mickey, more than anything in this entire fucking world, so it didn’t matter how violent or socially inept he was. Also, Mickey could read.

“Alright, you convinced me. I’ll take him off your hands.” Ian spoke up. When he turned around, Byron’s face cycled through a myriad of emotions before landing on wary. God, Ian wanted to make him piss his pants in fear. Ian didn’t think he was particularly terrifying, but anyone who drove a Vespa was divinely bound to be a pussy the remainder of their life. So really, Byron had done it to himself.

“This uh, this what you do when you don’t like somebody? Bash them behind their backs, get a good laugh at their expense with your fucking friends. Try to pawn them off to some other guy.”

“No, uh, I, uh, didn’t mean – “ 

“Byron, come on. I know exactly what you meant.” Ian smiled the kind of smile you give someone when you’re so fucking angry it eventually just turns into being absolutely baffled. 

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not the kind of guy who lets people talk shit about the man he loves, so – hey can you hold this for me?” When Ian handed Byron his crutches, he was pretty sure Byron was too shocked to do anything but accept them docilely. This didn’t seem like the kind of encounter kids like Byron normally had,  
“Thanks.” 

Ian had never met someone who had been easier to nail. The kid dropped like a sack of potatoes, down and out for the count. It was kind of unsatisfying and lame as shit, so Ian just kept wailing on him. He couldn’t really blame Byron anyway; he was about four feet, ten inches tall and probably weighed fifteen pounds soaking wet. Also, he drove a Vespa. He never stood a chance. 

Ian reacting to Byron’s friend grabbing at the back of his shirt before he even really registered that the other guy was there. He heaved the man down and got in a few solid hooks before the guy looked about ready to pass out. Good, fuck him. Fuck Byron, too. Fuck Byron especially. Ian wiped a little underneath his nose out of habit. Then he looked up.

Mickey stood over him. Looking so fucking done with him and maybe a little turned on. He was a fucking angel. Ian was ready to take the plunge.

Ian Gallagher was twenty-four and he was happy where he was. He was currently watching Mickey act pissy with Carl. 

“You pussy, I fucking promise that there’s nothing wrong with it.” Carl was laughing, he was trying to get Mickey to eat the, arguably, very dubious cake he’d procured via likely even more dubious means. Knowing Carl had some ins with the local trashmen did nothing to help his case.

“Come on Mickey, it’s your birthday. You gotta eat the cake.” 

“I ain’t gotta do fucking anything. Get that shit away from me.” Mickey fended Carl off with a middle finger, glanced sideways to catch the tail end of Ian’s laugh. Ian wondered when Mickey had started doing that, looking at Ian like he had never really looked away in the first place. He thought there was another thing he liked about Mickey. 

Ian, seated on a stray picnic bench the Gallagher’s had adopted into their backyard, reached out for Mickey. Mickey folded easily. Until Ian tried to pull him into his lap, to which Mickey laughed,

“Fuckoff, carrot top.” And put Ian in a headlock instead. When Ian finally managed to wrestle Mickey into sitting next to him with their arms slung around one another, the tips of Mickey’s ears may have been a little rosy. Ian’s face hurt from grinning. Carl made gagging noises and fucked off to find someone else to screw with. Probably preferably a chick, and someone who wasn’t married to his brother. 

They were having a bash, in true Gallagher fashion, for Mickey’s twenty-sixth birthday. There was nothing particularly exceptional about twenty-six except that Fiona had dropped back into town all of a sudden and they needed a reason to throw a party. Fiona, standing at the center of yard, surrounded by old acquaintances (if not friends) and cackling unattractively with V, certainly looked more the part of the party’s center piece than Mickey. Ian’s husband looked as content as Mickey could look slouched against Ian at the picnic table otherwise populated by stray neighborhood kids, only around to scavenge dinner. 

Oh well, at least to Ian it was definitely for Mickey. Ian even got him a fucking present. 

A fancy watch - not a Rolex or some shit, but nice - with a stupid inscription on the back of its face. Their initials, like they were a dumbass high school couple. Ian was still embarrassed about it, even though he had already given it to Mickey this morning. Even though it had remained firmly attached to Mickey’s wrist ever since. Either way, Mickey probably hadn’t had an actual fucking party for his birthday since… ever. He wouldn’t be the one to ask for one. He deserved it anyway.

It was nice too. 

Well, it wasn’t anything fancy, but it was nice to have everyone together again. The picnic table Ian and Mickey had settled at was set under the tree Ian had helped Debbie steal from some rich lady’s house a few months back. Something about the PTA and some shit the lady, apparently named Kaylyn or something else that screamed equally of new white jeeps, pricey Brazilian waxes, and an eerily white house, had said about Debbie and Franny. The less Ian knew the better because he had most definitely been breaking his parole. At least it was for a good cause: upholding the honor of the Gallagher name. 

They hadn’t really intended to take the tree with them, it just kind of happened that way. Ian thought it was a wonderful addition to their yard. The tree had flowers, tiny white ones that smelled nice. Like summer and something earthy. Ian brushed off a few blossoms that had fallen on Mickey’s shoulder. 

The sun was just beginning to set, and it wasn’t too hot. Ian felt impossibly good looking at his siblings catching up with one another. Franny had taken Fred under her wing as soon as he’d learned to walk. She led him around by the hand and fed him lose bits of hotdog out of her pockets as if he was a puppy. That’s probably exactly what she was thinking. Liam had brought over a posse. Ian was glad for that. Even Frank had made an appearance with all his usual flair and Ian found he wasn’t all that bothered by it.

In all the commotion, Ian eventually just ended up looking at Mickey looking at the other people. Sometimes it felt like he couldn’t look at him enough. Mickey was still morally grey and irritating and fucking incredible. By far Ian’s favorite person of all the ones he had met. Sure, Ian had drug-addicts for parents and grew up on the Southside, but he had met some good people. 

This Mickey, so relaxed with clothes that fit right and had been washed more recently than last month, looked like he felt alright in his own skin. this Mickey was still aggressive and emotionally dysfunctional, but he smiled every day. This Mickey was Ian’s husband. This Mickey was miles away from the Mickey Ian had first fallen in love with. Ian was okay with that.

There had been a time when Mickey changing had scared Ian. It had scared him because it had felt like everything was changing, too much and too fast. At that time, Ian was changing into something he didn’t understand, something he suspected might be terrible and miserable altogether. At that same time, Mickey had been changing into what Ian thought he might always be able to be. Ian had wanted to cling to something he knew. He thought he knew Mickey. Ultimately, Ian had suspected that while he was changing for the worse, Mickey was changing for the best. 

Now it was okay though. Ian was starting to understand who he was. And Mickey was a part of that, would always be a part of that. 

Mickey was the part of Ian that liked to fight a little too much, the part that smoked a little more, and the part that had burned that couch where Svetlana and Mickey met in the most awful way imaginable one night in an alcohol-induced rage. Even though he had come to love Svetlana, he wished it could’ve been different. 

Mickey was also the part of Ian that liked Nescafe coffee, that couldn’t eat mayo anymore after prison, that slept close like they were in a twin size long after they had been upgraded to a full, that was so hungry for love sometimes that it hurt. It was the part that thought one day they might be dads, maybe even good ones. 

Ian moved to cup Mickey’s cheek with the arm he had around the man and kissed the other, probably a little to sloppily. Oh well, he had let himself drink one beer so he may be a little tipsy. For his part, Mickey reached up to brush a hand through the short hair at the nape of Ian’s neck. They looked at each other, Ian grinned.

“Mickey! Come over, we’re gonna toast to you!” Debbie beckoned both of them. Mickey scoffed a little,

“Yeah, okay. Like you guys need another fucking reason to get shitfaced.” Ian laughed too much at that and rose to his feet, turning to offer a hand to Mickey. Mickey held onto his hand even after Ian had helped him up. It was warm.

Ian Gallagher was twenty-six and someone called him daddy. Other than Mickey, that is. 

Ok, maybe Mickey didn’t call him daddy. Often.

“Daddy, are you listenin’?” Ian was braiding Mona’s damp hair in the bathroom. Tomorrow was her first day of first grade and her hair had to be up to standards, her own standards to be precise. Unfortunately, Ian had never really gotten the hang of braids. He could manage, but they always ended up a little wonky. Mickey told him that he didn’t braid tight enough and he needed to part the hair into sections before he started a French or Dutch braid, but Ian didn’t want to pull Mona’s hair too tight and hurt her.

The child already complained endlessly when he tugged even a little hard at her hair when brushing it.

“Daddy?” Ian had been too focused on braiding; he lost his grip on the hair when Mona turned to pin him with a look. She was destined to become every bit as dangerous as any Gallagher woman had ever been. 

“Please listen to me, Daddy.” 

“Alright, I’m listening. Turn around again will ya? Or else we’ll be here for the rest of the night.” Mona immediately turned back to face the mirror. For a little girl who liked to have her hair braided she was particularly restless about finishing up. 

“Anyway, I want Warner to be in my class this year. He told me that he thinks it’s cool that I have two dads cause he’s got a mommy and she never lets him watch TV. Not even on weekends. And also, she keeps throwing his daddy out ‘cause he’s got a lot of friends, I guess.” She rocked back and forth on her feet as she relayed this to him. Ian tried not to laugh. In the past year Ian had learned way more about the parents of Mona’s classmates than he’d ever wanted to know. 

Sometimes he got nervous about what kind of things Mona said about him and Mickey. However, between being gay felons and Mickey’s knuckle tats they hadn’t ever really been in the running for PTA parents. 

“You don’t want a mommy?” He asked. 

“Nah, I got Aunt Fi, Aunt Tami, and Debbie. That’s good for me.” Ian knew this. Any child that came into the Gallagher family, born or adopted, had more people looking out for them than they’d ever need.

“That’s right. Alright, I think we’re done here squirt.” Mona inspected her braids with the utmost scrutiny and then announced,

“I want Papa to redo them.” 

Ian huffed a little bit as he lifted her off the bathroom stool,

“Sure. Why do I try?” Mona looked up at him for a moment. Her eyes were impossibly big and curious. Suddenly she grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss to it. Six year olds are typically not very experienced in the kissing department so she mostly just ended up slobbering on him, but Ian was still touched. Even when she kind of ruined it by saying,

“I’m sorry that you’re a bad braider Daddy.” Then she shot out of the bathroom with impressive speed. Ian wondered, as he often had since Mona had come to them almost two years ago if he’d ever had that much energy. He followed her more slowly.

“Papa, I need you to braid my hair. Please.” Ian already knew what the answer would be when he leaned against the doorway of their room, folding his arms over his chest. Mickey was a big fucking softie. He made eye contact with the other man over Mona’s head and grinned cheekily. Mickey was moving to get Alex off the bed.  
“Alright, give me a minute though, okay kiddo?” Mona flopped onto the bed dramatically, face first, and let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Fiiiiiiiine.” She turned her head to look up at Mickey as he picked Alex up,

“Ew, bubba pooed himself!” She sprang to her feet. Mickey rushed hold the ten-month-old away from his body. It was already too late though; he’d gotten some of the shit on his arm. And it was green. Nasty. 

“Fu…dge! I just changed you man.” Ian laughed at Mickey from the safety of the doorway. It hadn’t gotten less funny since the first time Mickey, opening their shitty dishwasher one morning at breakfast to find that it was broken and hadn’t washed any of the dishes, had turned ‘piece of shit’ into ‘piece of shoot’. The wildly incorrect grammar of the statement didn’t help his case, neither did the fact that he still swore in front of Mona at least once a day in spite of his efforts. 

“Oh, you’re shitting me,” point proven, “He got it on the bed, Ian.”

Mickey turned to his husband, hold out their son; things were starting to look grim for Ian. 

“Well, I gotta braid Mona’s hair, so...” Mickey’s smile was more than a little vindictive. Ian held his hands up and started to back out of the room. Mickey and Mona both followed in hot pursuit.

“Hey, don’t look at me, Papa. I uh – got other stuff to do. Important stuff. Just, um, throw the baby away or something.” He grinned. Ian made it to the stairs before Mona grabbed a hold of his legs. Then she looked up at him morosely, at six years old Mona had perfected the pout. Shit, Ian was doomed. 

“Daaaaaaaadddddy.” That was all it took, even though her voice was penetrating pitches so high they could arguably qualify as a dog whistle. Fuck, she was cute. He huffed and scooped up his daughter only to start tickling her. 

“Alright, fine. I guess I’m on poop duty while Papa gets to do the fun stuff,” Mona giggled as Ian blew a raspberry onto her stomach and carried her upside down to the bathroom. He flipped her over and deposited her back onto the stool then turned to accept Alex from Mickey,

“Finally.” Mickey muttered as he went to the sink to wash his arms. 

“Geez, bud, you really didn’t hold back, did you?” Ian said. Alex, for his part, had remained relatively unperturbed by his own predicament. Classic. Ian went to his and Mickey’s room to retrieve a diaper and wipes for Alex. Then he returned to the bathroom, maneuvering around Mickey to plop down heavily on the floor and start stripping Alex out of his clothes. 

Alex was absolutely set on obtaining a particular bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub. 

“Come on, stay still bub.” Ian pleaded fruitlessly. After a moment of trying to wrestle Alex back into sitting, he gave up. Oh well, he tried. Ian worked around the squirming. As he cleaned up Alex he tuned into Mona and Mickey’s conversation. Well, it was mostly just Mona talking, but Ian knew Mickey didn’t mind. When it came to their children, Mickey’s tolerance for bullshit multiplied a hundred-fold. Ian didn’t know this about Mickey until Mona and Alex, but hell if he didn’t fucking appreciate it.

Mona was mostly rehashing the same story she’d told to Ian earlier for her Papa. When Mona finished her piece, Mickey said:

“Yeah? Warner seems alright but remember what I said about boys.” Mona rolled her eyes but nodded affirmatively and responded.

“If they try to do any funny business with me, kick them in the nuts!”

“Good girl. You’re a real Milkovich, you know?” He sounded impossibly proud. Ian smiled privately as he finished wiping up Alex and turned on the facet in the bathtub. 

“You mean she’s a real Gallagher?” Ian looked down at Alex who was finally able to play with the shampoo bottle as he sat in Ian’s lap. “Back me up on this one bub.” Ian directed at the baby.

Alex just screeched and then blew a few spit bubbles, smacking Ian’s knee with the bottle. 

“See? Alex agrees.” Mona looked at Ian incredulously, like she couldn’t believe that he was missing something obvious. 

“But bubba’s just a baby, Daddy. He doesn’t know anything.” Mickey laughed and tied off one of her braids with an elastic.

“That’s right, she’s not stupid. What do you think, Mona? You a Gallagher or a Milkovich?” Now Mona spun around to give Mickey the same look as she had Ian and huffed,

“Both, obviously. You and Daddy are being silly.” Something warmed in Ian’s chest at her words as he held Alex up in the tub as he washed him down. God, every time he thought he couldn’t love her more, she proved him wrong. 

“Guess you are, aren’t you? Geez, baby, you’re smart as heck.” Mickey praised. Ian lifted Alex out of the tub and began toweling him off. 

“Thanks Papa. I already knew that though.”

“Course you did.” Ian could hear the humor in his husband’s voice. Ian had just finished wrestling Alex into his diaper when he heard Mickey say,

“All done, now you better get to bed, kid, or I might have to go sleep in your room.” Then he heard both Mickey and Mona bolting out of the bathroom. He already knew that Mickey probably wouldn’t let her win tonight, he’d already done that on Sunday. Mickey would definitely let her climb in with him to read a story after though. 

A children’s story heavily embellished with a lot more fighting and conniving. Ian also knew that no matter what story Mona picked out to be read, the hero would also be called Mona and any of the protagonist’s friends: Daddy, Papa, and Alex.

Ian bounced Alex on his hip a bit and then pressed a kissed to the baby’s head,

“Alright, we’re good to go. You sure can make a mess bub, when’re you gonna start cleaning it up though?” He kissed Alex again, this time on one of his cheeks. Then the other cheek. Alex giggled suddenly and so joyously, reaching up to grab at Ian’s chin and cheek. It kind of hurt. Again, Ian’s heart clenched warmly. 

Ian couldn’t stand it, he beamed at Alex. How he loved this child. His child. Mickey’s child. Ian walked out of the bathroom, putting Alex down to hold his hands and walk him back to the bedroom. Alex could already stand on his own and Ian knew he had it in him to just get up and start walking any day now. Maybe he wasn’t theirs by blood, but he certainly was by nature and he had already picked up some of Mickey’s fire. He heard Mona ask in the kids’ bedroom,

“Is Daddy gonna say goodnight to me?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry kiddo, he’s coming. He’s just gotta get bubba ready for bed.” 

“Okay. If he isn’t coming for a while, you can read another story.” The request was met with Mickey’s voice pitching in again to begin reading the next story in the book Liam had gotten for her when she was newly adopted.

It didn’t take Ian long to get Alex into a fresh onesie and pull their soiled sheets off the bed to be washed. Then, when Ian entered Mona and Alex’s room, Mickey was lying on the bed, leaned against the wall with Mona planted in his lap. The two of them were so deeply enthralled in the story Mickey was telling that Ian felt a little bad to announce himself,

“I heard somebody requested a goodnight?” Mona looked up to Ian and reached out her arms for a hug. After Ian obliged her, trapping Alex between them for a brief moment, she inquired,

“Can we finish this story?” It didn’t help that Mickey was kind of looking at him like he wanted to finish it as well. Ian nodded and squeezed next to Mickey on the bed. He held Alex against his chest and began patting his butt in hopes that he would drift off somewhere in the next few pages. Mickey looked at the book again,  
“Alright, where was I? Mona is about to kick the villagers’ asses–“

By the time Mickey had finished not only had Alex fallen soundly asleep, but Mona’s eyes were nearly shut. Hopefully, she wouldn’t protest when they left. Ian was pretty sure she asked for an endless deluge of stories almost solely because she wanted to stay up as late as possible. Ian glanced up from Mona to share a look with Mickey. He was thinking the same thing. Mickey slowly shifted Mona to lay down in her bed as Ian got up and put Alex in his crib. 

When Ian turned back around, Mickey was finishing tucking Mona’s blankets firmly around her. Finally, he leaned over to kiss her forehead,

“Night, kiddo.”

Ian went over to kiss her as well,

“Gotta get some sleep for your big day, right?” Mona nodded slowly after a moment. Her eyes were already closed. Thank fuck. 

“Night, Daddy and Papa.”

Mickey shut off the lights and the two of them left the room quietly. Only after the door was closed did Mickey turn to him and say,

“Finally, I’m fucking horny.” Mickey immediately wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist to grab his ass and bring their mouths together. However, Ian was having trouble kissing between laughing and trying to be at least a little quiet to.

“Oh, fuck off, you don’t like spending time with the kids?” 

“Course I do, you know that. Sometimes a motherfucker just needs a dick in his ass, though.” They split apart and started walking down the hall to their room.

“Yeah, I know, you can get real pissy without one every once in a while.” 

“Hey, at least I ain’t afraid to admit it.” They stopped in front of their bed and Mickey immediately stripped his shirt off. Ian grinned as he took the opportunity to squeeze Mickey’s ass. 

“Just give me a minute. I gotta stick our sheets in the wash or they’ll stain.” 

“Calm down, Romeo. If you get anymore romantic, I'll fucking puke. Don’t take too long.” 

“I won’t.” Ian kissed Mickey quickly before picking up the hamper. It took a little longer because he went wash out the sheets in the bathtub as well as he could. Oddly, it was while he was doing this that he realized something. 

Things in his life hadn’t gone as planned. Not in any capacity. Somehow though, between all the crazy shit and the heartache, he’d become happy. Wildly fucking happy.

It wasn’t the giddiness and connection he felt when Mickey did something particularly sweet. Nor the way he felt when he got to see Fiona for the first time in three months. Rather this was a fuller happiness, more resilient and lasting. It encompassed those things, but it was more too. This was the kind of joy that lays dormant most of the time, only to rear its lovely head when you least expect it. 

Ian knew that things weren’t perfect for them, didn’t ever expect them to be in the world of Gallaghers and Southsiders. Still, he hoped this kind of happiness stuck around, even when things got tough. He suspected it would. So many painful, shameful moments had torn Ian up over the course of his life, had done the same to Mickey, but eventually they always came crashing back together. At times it was gentler than others, but it happened all the same. Mickey was an inevitability, one that Ian wanted more than anything else. And now they had Alex and Mona too. 

Ultimately, Ian knew. There was really nobody better for Ian Gallagher than Mickey Milkovich and he was trying to prove himself every day, to become the best person for Mickey. The important part though, in the moments that really counted, was that Mickey Milkovich had chosen him. Mickey trusted him with his being still, given into Ian and then given Ian his last name too. 

He hoped that when he became that person, Mickey would still be around, choosing him every fucking day of the rest of their lives. That was the most fucking precious thing in this world to Ian Gallagher.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope some of you enjoyed this! It took fucking forever to write and ended up being way too long, but it's here now and we all just have to accept it for what it is.
> 
> Either way, if you haven't already, please feel free to go take a look at the companion piece to this, "To Feel Bodily Warmth" it's written from Mickey's POV, so if you don't prefer works from Ian's POV then that might be more your speed. It's not necessarily a mirror reflection of this story nor do you have to read it for this story to make sense (hahaha, I hope it made sense on its own), rather it simply contains similar themes. Anyway, it's a banger, for sure, check it out.
> 
> Additionally, there are some disclaimers and such that I would like to make here as well:
> 
> 1) I'm not saying that Ian ever actually regretted sex with Trevor. Don't wanna be controversial. I'm just saying that's the way I'm interpreting it because I'm Gallavich trash (although, I think Trevor had his good points), also angst, and sorry Trevor. 
> 
> 2) I have bipolar disorder and so how I describe Ian's feelings and actions while he is experiencing (hypo)mania or depression are heavily based on my own experiences. I can't really speak for anyone else. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading, please leave comments! I love hearing what people think so much, even if it's criticism.


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